Emerald Hawks Flight

By Patsy Stanley

  Emerald Hawks, an Appalachian mountain girl, has inherited the Healer's abilities passed down through her mother's generations. Emerald loves her mountain home, and is learning the Healer's ways when her father uproots their large family and moves north to find work. Shy and reticent mountain people, Bolen and Thursta, Emerald's moth

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patsy Stanley
• Release date: Nov 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9781732377912

Patsy Stanley

Patsy Stanley is an artist, illustrator and author. She has authored both nonfiction and fiction books including novels, children's books, energy books, art books, and more. She can reached at:[e-mail] for questions and comments.

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Ḉhapter 1. Leavin’ Home

They rode through thin, early mornin’ sun, over skinny, curving blacktop, coarse cut through ancient hills and the soft green mountains of their generations. They rode slow past coal mines and tobacca’ barns with faded advertisements painted on their sides. Once in awhile somebody was outside and thowed’ up their hand at them. Mostly they didn’t see nobody, just a few milk cows and work mules.

The back of the old green truck they rode in held all they owned. Frayed tarps with knotted ropes tied to homemade side slats kept their belongin’s from fallin’ out.

Lottie and Emerald set propped agin’ the tailgate in a corner of the complainin’, creakin’ old truck bed, not speakin’, watchin’ ever thing with wide eyes while the miles passed by. It was the first time they’d seen anything outside the holler where their cabin stood.

The man had stopped at the general store the night before and got what he called a fancy store bought meal ta’ take on the road with ‘em before headin’ up the holler. In the back of the truck set the brown grocery sack he’d carried home. In it was bologna, a loaf of light bread, already warm, a glass jar of mustard, and a table knife. The grocery bag set up agin’ a pilla’ case holdin’ tins of flare’, salt, bakin’ powder, and a small slab of fatback. A tin of lard set in the black iron skillet next to the pilla’ case. Biscuit makin’s. They would stop some place for water ta’ drink.

Tall, big boned and silent, Thursta set in the middle of the cracked and faded front seat of the truck, holdin’ baby Lucy, a sleepin’ on her lap. She set weighty and silent between Bolen, the small man a’ worryin’ the large, black steerin’ wheel, and their oldest, West, a’ long, tall, boy-man a’ gazin’ out the winda’, watchin’ the speedometer, or studyin’ the truck’s worn gear knobs on long sticks.

The truck engine whined and strained under the heavy load. The hot, damp air flowin’ through the winda’ swept over the woman’s thick, dark hair. Her wide, generous mouth stayed clamped shut agin’ anything she might be feelin’ as she stared out at the world she was leavin’ behind.

Thursta’s large hazel eyes stayed shaddered’ from seein’ too much of an unexpected, unfair life too young. They held an old, well-learned weariness; she’d been seein’ meanness since she was too young ta’ know how ta’ expect and how to unexpect everything but it’s dark malice.

The high ridges of her cheekbones stood etched knife sharp in the soft, hazy, mornin’ light. They softened from time to time in the dappled shadder’s a’ playin’ over her face as they passed slow out of their old life, all of them a’ clingin’ to it except Bolen, all a’ them both a’ dreadin’ and wantin’ the new world he was drivin’ ‘em into.

She was thinkin’ ‘bout the bees. Bolen and the men he drank with had carried a swarm of what they called I-talian honey bees home to her. They brought the bee swarm home ta’ her early one mornin’ in a warshtub when they come in from layin’ out all night. The men he run with included most of her brothers. They gambled, made moonshine, and hunted together.

They got together ever evenin’ and laid out til’ late. They was allus’ a’ swappin’ for one thing or another. She was used to him bringin’ somethin’ home ever little while. Generally, it was somethin’ she had to take care of.

The men, like they did ever’ mornin’, went to talkin’ and braggin’ about their night. They set at the old wood table eatin’ the breakfast she’d fixed fer’ them. She’d got up at daybreak and fired up the stove and put a big pan of biscuits in the oven. Then she’d gathered big brown hen eggs, fried a dozen of ‘em and set ‘em ta’ the back of the stove.

The men left it to her to do somethin’ with the bee swarm. She knowed better than to ask any of them questions. She went out back and studied the rusty old warshtub a’ settin’ a little ways from the back porch. Somebody had tied an old white sheet over the top of it. She walked around and around the tub ta’ hear how the bees inside was a’ doin’’.

They was calm. She took a’ hold of the tub and dragged it across the yard until it set close to the empty bee hive her Pa had made. That ol’ warshtub was heavy; she finally quit draggin’, stood up and wiped the sweat off her face with her apron.

She glanced up at the top of the hill. Mornin’ mist still curled around the trees. It was as cool right now as it was gonna git’ all day. She hoped the bees would still be a little slow from the shoemake smoke the men blowed over them when they robbed the bee tree.

She got the hive ready for the bees, then went back in the house. She took her time and pulled on a long sleeved shirt and buttoned the collar up and the sleeves down tight. She put on old jeans and tied her pant legs around her ankles with twine, and pulled on a pair of old work boots. She tied a thin, see through scarf around her head and pulled it down over her face. She nodded to herself. Well, she was as ready as she was ever gonna’ be.

She went out back ta’ the hive, wearin’ a pair of socks over her hands, carryin’ the big mash scoop. It was awhile since she’d handled any bees. But the men knowed ta’ bring ‘em to her ‘cause she had a way with animals and birds and bees.

She untied the piece of white sheet around the warshtub’ and pulled a corner of it back, makin’ a hole for the bees to fly out. She stepped back aways and watched ‘em. They come out slow and easy in a steady stream and flew a short ways before returnin’ to the washtub. She was in no hurry. It wouldn’t do to get in a hurry around bees. They’d jist’ git’ upset and go wild on ye’.

She watched the bees ta’ figure out how they was gonna’ act as she edged closer and closer to the tub. They was a gentle a bee as any she’d ever seen. Not a bit of temper in ‘em. That feelin’ like slow water and old music started runnin’ over her. That told her she was in rhyme with the bees, and it would work out jist’ right. Mary had a little lamb… she crooned, keeping her voice soft and slow. But there was another rhyme she knowed and liked better. She thought they’d like it, too.

Twinkle twinkle little star…

She kept her movements in slow motion as she bent over the tub. She was good at keepin’ her mind where it needed to be with the bees or any other creature. She knowed what she was a’ doin’ with them. When she was with the chickens, pigs, or any of the forest animals, she was washed free of the fearful times she lived through in the other parts of her life. The places where her man and family ruled.

She slid the sheet back a little at a time. A few of the bees flew out and lit on her. She didn’t mind, not one bit. She pulled the sheet back a little further. When it was back far enough, she dipped the mash scoop into the warshtub, takin’ care not to pinch any of the bees or break up the slabs of honeycomb.

She carried the honey ta’ the empty hive, scoop by scoop, and when it got down fur’ enough, she lifted the slabs of honeycomb out and carried ‘em ta’ the hive and put ‘em in it. She made slow, purposeful trips back and forth between the tin tub and the bee hive ‘til it was done.

She backed up a little ways and waited. The bees left the tub and went to their honey. They were still groggy and slow. She pulled the sheet back further and further, ‘til the last bee flew to the hive. Then she pulled the sheet back over the washtub quick, and tied it so’s they couldn’t git’ back in. She stepped away and studied the bees. They was placid natured, like regular honey bees. But these bees was much bigger and they had more yella’ on their bodies. She admired their bigness and their smooth bodies. She liked the mild sound of ‘em and their dignity. They were beautiful. Their honey was the richest, dark gold she’d ever seen.

After they settled into the hive, she went to the house and got Lottie to help her carry the tub up on the back porch. She didn’t want to drag it across the ground, ‘cause the sound might stir up the bees. They needed people and noise to stay away ‘til they got settled in good.

They scooped the rest of the honey out of the tub and let it ooze into pans from the kitchen, then carried it in. Bolen and his friends strolled into the kitchen.

Ever one of you’ins’ take plenty a’ that honey home with ya’. he urged, rockin’ back and forth on his heels, braggin’ about what all he could give away, which was often what little bit they owned.

Thursta studied him. His blond, wavy hair stood tight to his head, so all was well. But that could change quick as lightnin’. When he run his hands through his hair, causin’ it ta’ stand up, they knowed ta’ run. He wouldn’t do nothin’ much in front of nobdy except them, though.

Small and wiry, wearin’ old dark blue work pants from Sears and Roebuck, his great big hands wavin’ around, old black, worn work shoes on his feet, he bragged on and on. The men standin’ around was all taller and bigger than him and they knowed it bothered him no end. They laughed behind his back about what a cocky litte rooster he was and the big hen he’d caught. The men stared at them with calculatin’ eyes. What could they take next? The woman sighed. The man stared at the honey in the pans.

Where’s the rest of it, woman? He never called her by name. She didn’t answer.

Well, he finally said, divide it up, woman. She turned away and got busy. The men grabbed the bowls and pans of honey and left. At least they’d bring the pans and bowls back. As quick as the men got out the door, he slapped her.

Git’ the hell out there and git’ that honey brought in here! he shouted. She turned her back to him and waited. She knew he wanted to keep most of the honey and let the bees fend for themselves. But she wouldn’t go back out and take it from them, and he couldn’t. They would sting him,to spite the smell of him, and he knew it.

Bolen knowed a lot about bees, but he couldn’t handle them. They would sting him, ‘cause they didn’t like him. Maybe it was the constant whiskey smell on him. He thought that was the only reason, but she knowed bees wouldn’t put up with bad temper or wildness or unsettled ways roilin’ in the sweat of a body.

She’d already reasoned it out while she was a’ movin’ the bees. She would have her way, for it was for them, not for her. She didn’t want them robbed agin’. They would git’ ta’ keep their honey.

Since he got mad sa’ quick and easy anyway, if he didn’t git’ mad over the bees, it would a’ been over somethin’ else. Usually ‘cause she was sa’ much taller than him and it made him mad ‘cause she looked down on him. That fact was a constant sorrow to him night and day, and he belittled her by settin’ out ever day ta’ prove to her he was the boss. She’d already learned that lesson from the men in her childhood.

Bein’ a big girl was hard. She shrugged morosely and endured his hits and threats with a stoic face, knowin’ he’d lose interest and go on to somethin’ else ‘fore long. The one savin’ grace of the drink. More than anything, she knowed she was saving somethin’ from putting up with the misery the man dished out to all things ever’ day, rain or shine.

She watched the calm, beautiful bees to see how they was a’ farin’, and saw they wasn’t makin’ any honey. That told her they’d lost their queen. They would have to be fed sugar water ever day when their honey run out, or they wouldn’t make it through the winter. In the spring, if they made it, they could search for another queen.

Their chance for makin’ it without a queen was slim, but she would try ta’ help them. She hid most of the honey left in the tub. Honey never spoilt’. She sealed it into quart jars while he was gone, hidin’ them in the root cellar behind the cabin. He wouldn’t think a’ lookin’ there. She would use it ta’ keep ‘em fed when the honey in the hive run out.

She sneaked around and fed the bees ever day after their honey ran out. Fall frost set in, then snow started comin’ down. When the honey in the root cellar run out, she carried sugar water to ‘em. Ever’ time she stepped out the back door with the bowl of sugar water, they rose up in a cloud and come and lit on her and the bowl. She had to walk real slow and set the bowl down careful so she didn’t pinch any of ‘em, or they would sting her. That was just their natural reaction. They didn’t mean anything by it. She waited ‘til they were all off of the bottom of the bowl before she set it down.

The man got jealous and tried to feed them a time or two, but they rose up and stung him. The man wasn’t one to let his woman have anything that wasn’t under his rule for long, but just as her mother had often escaped her father, she often escaped him. She had learned meaning from her mother, who was a rock, and a green willow, who carried the Sight and kept it, even though her father, a hardshell, churchy man, had tried to take it away from her.

Thursta stared out the truck winda’ at the mountains they were travelin’ through, not seein’ ‘em. The bees finally died out. They never had much hope of makin’ it anyway. The man told her the bees didn’t need sugar water, they was fine on their own, once they was settled in.

She let on to him like she believed his lie, but any how, sugar cost a pretty penny, and even though he had an awful sweet tooth, he stopped bringin’ any of it home, and she never got to leave the place.

So the bees died out slow, a little bit at a time. She’d watched them and cried a little bit at a time, keepin’ pace with ‘em. One mornin’, she slipped out and looked at the empty hive. They was all gone.

A cold, bitter wind keened a long, low lament through the empty hive, telling her of their end. She turned away and looked up the holler. The wind took on an awful lonesome sound. She climbed the skinny dirt path leadin’ up the holler ‘til she stood high up in back of their home place.

She stood there awhile, lookin’ down at the little brown log cabin and the smooth board porch that stayed cool and soothed her bare feet when she churned butter. She studied the thin metal clothesline strung between two young trees. He’d brought the wire home from the general store and bragged ta’ her that they’d never have ta’ replace the clothesline agin’. She had to clean the rust off it ever time before she hung clothes on it so the rust wouldn’t get on them. Sometimes it got on the clothes anyway, and he raised hell about it.

She watched the ribbon of silver creek water ripplin’ shaller ‘at the end of the clearing. She warshed clothes in the creek and cooled milk in it fer’ the babies.

She leaned forward and keened a little sound of grief. She was verily afraid of him. In a minute, she straightened and stood tall, knowin’ at least the bees didn’t have to be afraid of him any more. They were free and flyin’ wild in a warm field of pretty honey makin’ flares’, in the good, safe place where bee’s go after their life on Earth is done.

Thursta smoothed Lucy’s dark hair, so much like her own, over and over with her long, restless fingers. She kept her head turned away from the man as she stared out at the world they were leavin’ behind, thinkin’ thoughts she would never share with him. His pint of whiskey settled by his hip, Bolen drove on and on, carryin’ them further and further away from the life their mountain generations had always known. Neither one of them spoke to, or looked at each other.

Ḉhapter 2. Thursta

Thursta Plant had married Bolen Hawks because he dared her to. Such a simple trick. But she fell for it.

People in their mountains married young. Her parents married when her mother, Drusa, was fifteen, her father, Stanford, sixteen. They’d been married, with all their children growed up and was a’ startin’ to grow old together, all set in their ways and prim in their habits, when Thursta come along. She was the biggest surprise they’d got in a long time! That’s what they told her, a’ laughin’ and a‘ kissin’ on her.

Thursta was the baby, the youngest of their many children. She was born when her mother was in the change, the time when women stopped havin’ babies. Drusa picked out her name, for her father said he’d run slap’ out of ‘em. Her name was a blend of the languages from her mother‘s Cherokee and Irish heritage. When her mother spoke her name, Thursta Plant, it sounded like she was a’ sayin’ thirsty plant, meanin’ a little green growin’ thing, a caress of meanin’ they shared.

Thursta’s mother and father allus’’ felt old ta’ her. They were tall and slim and quiet anf gray headed. She watched them give each other little grins all the time, like somethin’ about life was funny. When she asked ‘em what they was a’ grinnin’ about, they said, Must be somethin’ jist’ around the corner.

At night Thursta watched Drusa braid her gray hair into a long plait. That meant it was time to go to bed. In the mornin’ bright and early, Drusa heated warsh water and warshed her face and Thursta’s with a warshrag, braided Thursta’s hair and twisted her own hair up in a tight, gray bun on top of her head. They took baths in the warshtub on Saturday evenin’s out back by the well in summer. They took baths in the back room in the winter.

Drusa kept three dresses a’ peice for herself and Thursta, two for ever day and one for Sunday go to meetin’ at the little white church at the bottom of the hill by the general store. Women wore dresses ‘cause the men wore the pants in the family. A woman who wore pants better have a good reason, or she was tellin’ she was the boss of her man. No mountain man they knew would stand for it.

Drusa wrapped up her little dab a’ grocery money in white cotton handkerchiefs and pinned them inside her apron pocket so she wouldn’t lose the money. They never needed much from the general store. Most of their food was canned up from the big garden out past the well. Cabbages and cukes got pickled into crocks and left ta’ age in the pantry, meat was put up in lard or hung up in the smokehouse or dried, root crops went down in the dirt cellar at the side of the house.

Drusa’s old treadle sewing machine was a Singer she got from the second hand store in town. She sewed up her aprons in plain, serviceable colors, but she was partial to green or blue paisley patterns for her church dresses. Her dresses brushed the tops of her black, pointy toed, lace up shoes. They were styled in the same simple pattern. Three quarter sleeves and a simple round collar. A skirt wide enough to move around in and not show her figure. When she set down, she was all long bones, her hands restin’ in her lap like they was ashamed not to be workin’.

Drusa made most of their clothes. Sometimes she sewed for other women. The women come to the house and they drew patterns on grocery sacks or other paper with a pencil before she sewed their dresses up. Thursta liked watchin’ Drusa’s hands a’ movin’ over the paper and the cloth when she made the dresses.

Drusa called the fancy dresses frocks because they had extra lace or other trims, shiny buttons, and extra gathers in the sleeves and waist. Stanford called the extra trims gewgaws.

The women brought the material, thread, and trims to Drusa. Sometimes they gave her the leftovers. Drusa trimmed out their church dresses with the extras, and they wore them proudly down the hill on Sunday mornin’s.

Thursta’s brother Chance was home one day when she was runnin’ from side to side of the chair Stanton set in, watchin’ his oversized yers wiggle, and he told an odd thing. He said that people elsewhere called their yers, ears, not sayin’ the Y’ before it like they allus’ did. Thursta wondered why people would call their yers ears. Years had to do with time-keepin’, not hearin’. Besides, yers was a lot easier to say. So that’s what they bcame ta’ her, yer’s ta’ hear with and years" ta’ fill.

Thursta had plenty of plain fare ta’ eat and a good little twin bed with an iron bedstead in the back room by the kitchen. Her room was once the pantry, but she wanted it, so they moved the things in it to other places. There was a window by her bed. She laid down at night and watched the dark drapin’ itself slow like dark snowfall over ever thing. Night fell in shades of gray with slate colored edges. She smelled the memories of spices and picklin’ stuff, the lonesome smell of corn and taters once stored in the little pantry. She fell asleep, content to listen to the advice and music the lonesome wind made, a’ blowin’ through the wild things up in the holler above the house.

Thursta’s father and brothers kept the fields plowed around and below the house. They worked the fields all summer. She ran past them while they worked, past the tobacco barn where they hung their allotments of tobacco, past the hay and donkey barn, past the cane field, up into the moving trees and into the shelter of the shaded woods.

Sometimes they shouted at her ta’ bring ‘em a dipper of cold water and she did. Other times, they waved, and she waved back, her dark hair flyin’ in the wind, a young banner runnin’ to its true home, wearing the overalls her brother Leon—Onnie’—passed down to her. Drusa and Stanford told her she could could wear britches for awhile yit’, fer’ she was still a chile’ and not a woman. She knowed they’d agreed ‘cause she’d been sneakin’ britches up in the holler ta’ wear and hidin’ ‘em since she was old enough ta’ go up there alone. Thursta didn’t care what the reason they agreed was;